A Dream in the Storms
by Seabrooke
Summary: Badly wounded, Farkas finds shelter in a homestead, and, while healing, makes friends with the homestead's owner and her daughter, Maelys and Bronwen. The latter one, though, is aloof at first, not least because of her physical constraints. What will happen when he meets Bronwen again, a few years after this incident? Will Bronwen be able to accept his beast nature? (Farkas X OC)
1. Chapter 1

**Mmmmkay everyone, this is my first ever fanfic on this site! It's a(nother) Farkas X OC fic, in case you clicked on the story without reading the summary for some reason, but I try to make something a bit different with it than the old cliché. So no insta-love, no soulmate-stuff, etc. This fic is character-centric and conversation-heavy instead of action-oriented. There is also no Dragonborn, or if there is, only as a side character. I dearly hope that Bronwen is not a Mary Sue. All opinions are appreciated.  
Have fun!**

It has not been a good day for Farkas, even though the commission had been a relatively simple one. The Silver Hand camp he was to eliminate – probably sent out from one of their strongholds to form a new permanent base – had been estimated small enough to enter without a shield-brother, so he had been by himself. That had been no problem for him; he rather went without an ally than with an incompetent wannabe-whelp who endangered them both.

So far, so good.

Then a Silver Hand scout had spotted him, even though he had approached as silently as he could, which, admittedly, was not easy in the heavy armor he usually wore. Thus he, who had hoped to sneak into the camp and ambush the inhabitants, had been ambushed himself. To add insult to injury, a sabre cat who had, unbeknownst to him, been stalking him for a while, had deemed this moment perfect to attack him, too. The Silver Hands' attempts to get rid of the ferocious beast had only further aggravated it. And to think they could hunt werewolves if they had trouble with a kittycat! Well, a big kittycat. A damn big cat. And heavy, too, with sharp claws and no intention to accept a compromise.  
The cat had attacked all of the fighters, but Farkas, being alone, had been literally hit the hardest. In the end, he, already badly hurt, had been forced to transform to take out his opponents, human, elven, orkish, and feline, and it had cost him a lot of energy he already could hardly muster anymore. When he transformed back, Farkas' knees bent like twigs and he fell onto his hands, trembling from pain and, stress and exhaustion. With the heat of the battle vanishing from his blood, Farkas felt all the wounds he had received; a deep gash on his neck from which blood shot in his breath's rhythm, several bite and claw wounds on both of his arms and hands, more deep, gaping cuts on his left upper arm and on his thigh which bled pretty badly, plus several smaller cuts which wouldn't have worried him on their own. Also, he was slightly giddy and felt a swelling form on his skull where a cross guard had hit him when he tried to evade a heavy sword blow. Maybe he should take on wearing helmets, even though the things restricted his field of vision and annoyed him in general.  
Farkas knew he was in bad shape. He had lost a lot of blood and was losing more by the second, and he was in really bad pain, even though he had never admitted it. He felt like just curling up and sleeping it off, and he wished so badly someone would help him with at least getting up or fetching medical supplies; but alas, he was on his own and therefore the only person he could count on in this hostile land, and there was no time for regrets. He drew the nearest corpse closer and began ripping their clothes apart so he had bandages with which he could at least keep the bleeding under control. His fingers trembled as he slung the rag around his neck. His blood ran down his fingers and into his bracers like the creeping fingers of death.  
When he had patched himself up as well as he could and drank a bit of water from a nearby canteen, he took a moment to think of the next step. There was no way he was going to make it home in his condition. But Solitude and all the villages and towns he knew in Haafingar were far away, either, and he doubted he would make it even there. Still, it could be the only chance he had. Groaning, every muscle, every little wound, flaming in pain, he stood up. For a moment, he faltered, but found his balance quickly. He tried drawing a deep breath, but it was as if his lungs had decided to deflate and not let any more breath in than was absolutely necessary for survival.  
Kodlak, being the wise old man that he was, had once told him: "Even a long journey begins with a single step." He had probably meant it figuratively, but Farkas had to think of it as he put one foot in front of the next as if he was walking for the first time in his life. Farkas felt mortified. He, the exalted strongman of the Companions, had trouble walking like an old woman, was whining about pain and wasn't sure whether he could make it home alone. Slowly, he set one foot in front of the other in a steady rhythm he quickly adopted. There was nothing to be done about this now. All he had to – and really could – think about was coming into safety, preferably before it got dark.

Then, the hailstorm began.

It was not a heavy hailstorm, but nevertheless, in his weakened state the cold really got to him. The ice balls shot from the sky like divine missiles and hit him all over the place, into his face, his hurting and still bleeding wounds, wherever they got. The second time this day he regretted not wearing a helmet, but all the regrets in the world wouldn't help him now. He just seemed to have really, really bad luck today.  
When he first heard the voice, he thought his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him, but then, he heard it again.

"Boy, over here! Where do you think you are going?"

It was the shape of a woman, holding some article of clothing over her head to protect her from the hail. Farkas stopped dead on his tracks and stared at her past the white tails of the hailstones. He probably stared at her for a moment too long, because she came closer, her steps forceful, and said: "Come on in. You're but catching your death out here in this weather."  
Farkas' field of vision blurred, but she seemed to be of middle age, her hair strawberry blonde and her face weathered. When she examined him, her fierce expression softened.  
"Got cut up pretty badly, have we?", she asked sympathetically, then placed the cloth on her head and put her hand around his bracer.  
"Uh", Farkas tried to protest, but his brain already refused to shape an objection. What the woman proposed – coming "on in", wherever that might be – sounded good. Safe. Like where he wanted to go. On weak legs, he followed her.  
Behind a small grove, a hut became visible, or rather, a small house. She opened the gates and led him into a house. The hail drummed heavily against the outsides of the wooden walls, yet, compared to the outside, the quiet was really nice. Farkas shivered from the sudden warmth that surrounded him.

The woman threw the clothing into a corner and led Farkas into the next room, where a fire crackled homily.

"Sit down in front of the fire, boy", she said, "I don't want you to get a cold."  
Farkas didn't have the energy left to tell her that because of his beast blood, it was impossible for him to catch a cold, even if he had wanted to. It seemed too inviting to just sit down and let the fire warm him up again, so he did as she proposed.  
He heard her leaving the room and going up stairs. When she came back, she positioned something over the roasting spit and hung two kettles onto it, then knelt next to Farkas, who had reclined into a sunken sitting position, and asked: "We should get this armor off you, shouldn't we?"

He nodded faintly and began doing so. She, to his surprise, helped and seemed to know what she was doing. With every piece of armor he dropped, Farkas felt less high-strung and overburdened and more comfortable and sleepy.  
While they were doing so, the woman introduced herself: "My name is Maelys Ellene and I'm the owner of this homestead. Whom do I have the pleasure with?"  
"Farkas", he said, and after a short hesitation: "Of the Companions."  
"Yes, I figured out that last part", the woman answered, sounding amused.  
Well, it wasn't as if every farmer knew what Companion armor looked like... or was it?  
Maelys pulled his shirt over his head like a mother might have done with her tired son, then told him to also strip down his trousers, took one of the kettles from the spit and poured the warm water into a wooden bucket, also pre-warmed from standing close to the fire. Farkas was too well trained a fighter to not feel unprotected with his armor and weapon removed, so he threw sideglances in his gear's general direction every now and then, but he didn't feel threatened in any way.  
Casually, Maelys handed him a golden-brown bottle. The scent told him it was mead.  
"Drink, Farkas. Having gashes like those tended to is not a comfortable thing, in case you didn't know."  
"I did", he protested vaguely, but drank anyway. The mead got to his tired head quickly and clouded his pain.  
"I should warn you. I'm not a restorationist, nor am I a surgeon", Maelys added, but got to work anyway, so he didn't feel any need to answer. He had apprehended she would apply mead to his wounds also, or even try to cauterise them with a hot iron, which could cause pain beyond comprehension, but she applied honey and garlic instead. The worse wounds, she stitched together to keep them from bleeding, then dressed them in clean bandages she had prepared by laying them into the hot water, in which, as he could see now, lay a silver ring to kill the germs.  
How ironic.  
It hurt pretty badly, but aside from sometimes sharply drawing breath when the pain really got to him, he held still and didn't utter a single sound.  
When he was all patched up, Maelys dipped a cloth into the hot water, rubbed a cake of soap that smelled like herbs on it, and began cleansing him of blood, sweat and gore. She started at his shoulders and back, gently rubbing his sore body, which further helped his muscles to relax. She cleaned his arms also, wasn't at all shy to clean his legs, even scrubbed his feet with – at least he thought it was that – a slight smile on her chapped lips, before cleaning his chest and stomach, too, and then, taking a fresh cloth, she started on his face.

When she scrubbed the area around his eyes a bit too long and too strongly, he leaned his head away, feeling disgruntled, and told her: "You can rub all you want, those stains have been painted with a needle."  
"Is that so?", she asked, obviously wondering why someone would have themselves tattooed with something that looked, to her, like dirt stains. "Then well."  
She laid the wet cloth away and took the one she had carefully put over the roasting spit; it was a towel, and by Talos, it was pre-warmed. The nicest thing he had seen in a long time – or at least, today. He was almost dry already, but still, she gently wiped the water off his skin. The warmth crawled into his tense muscles and eased the soreness and pain. He could hardly imagine anything more pleasant in his vulnerable state. Then, she took the other kettle and he heard her pour its contents into some sort of bowl. A moment later, she handed him a steaming tin cup. It was a herbal tea.  
"Drink, so you won't be hurting so badly this night", Maelys instructed him. Without thinking, he did after her words.

He heard her leave the room again, presumably putting away that things she had used, while he remained on the carpet, staring into the dying fire, completely outspent. When Maelys came back, she handed him two blankets and some rolled-up clothes.  
"I'm afraid I don't have another bedroll, let alone a bed, so you will have to make do with the floor", she said. "I also don't have another pillow, so I took some of Calvach's clothes and rolled them into something you can use as a pillow. There's more tea in the kettle, in case you're thirsty. Do you need anything else, Farkas?"  
He couldn't think of anything. He couldn't think, fullstop. He just wanted to sleep, nothing more. At this point, he was reeling even in his sitting position, he was so exhausted.  
Maelys seemed to notice he was in no shape to answer, so she helped him lay down comfortably, carefully positioned his head onto his makeshift pillow, placed the blankets over him and tucked him in. He fell asleep before she left the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two already :D This won't be my regular upload speed, though, so better not get used to it. It's just beginner's enthusiasm. This time, enter Bronwen! I still appreciate all and every opinion on this fic.**

When Farkas awoke the next morning, he felt like crap. Admittedly, the day before he had felt like crap, too. Like week-old mammoth diarrhea run over by all of the Imperial legions and covered in flies. Now he just felt like regular, run-of-the-mill crap, which was at least a slight improvement. He was used to sleeping badly – all werewolves were after a while – but in his shape, it was darn frustrating. He rubbed his clotted and crusted eyes before he sat up. All his wounds reminded him of their existence as he did so, and groaned, slightly wincing. Daylight came in from a window to his right, accompanied by birdsong and the yatter of ducks. Maelys was nowhere to be seen or heard, but his gear and his trusted sword still laid next to him. His shirt and trousers hung over the roasting spit. We was too worn-out to grab for them immediately, but when he did, he noticed that, much to his dismay, they were clammy. Maelys had most likely washed them to get rid of the gore and dirt, but now he had to wear wet clothes, which, on his still aching body, was very uncomfortable. He put them on nonetheless, but stayed where he was.  
Running his fingers through his tousled hair, he tried to think of what to do next. He still was in no condition to allow him to get home to Jorrvaskr, not even by carriage, plus, he would make too easy a target. Yet, he had to somehow tell the Companions he was doing fine... or rather fine, and had slain his target. He would talk to Maelys; perhaps there was a way to send a note to Windhelm. That should suffice.

He inspected his surroundings. Behind him, there was a table, surrounded by a small bench and two chairs, and a cupboard filled with various food items, so this was most likely a kitchen. Bunches of various herbs hang upside-down from the ceiling. A quilt lay on the bench; it looked homemade and comfortable.  
Suddenly, Farkas heard steps on the stairs just outside this room. At first he thought it had to be Maelys, bit then he heard that the steps were slow, irregular, and accompanied by wooden bangs. Maybe she was carrying something heavy? He would have helped, but when he tried to stand, his knees decided that the carpet was a nice place to be. He tried two more times, with the very same result. Frustrated, he gave up. Could he be so drained he could barely move anymore?  
The steps reached the end of the staircase. Farkas looked in the doorway's direction, expecting to see Maelys every moment and readying himself to greet her and thank her for taking him in. But when a person stepped into the doorway, it was not Maelys.

It was a girl, almost a child still, maybe twelve or thirteen years of age, a heavy crutch in each hand. She similarities to Maelys where undeniable. She had the same fierce brow and heart-shaped face, even though hers was, of course, younger and less weathered. When she saw him, she stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him from big, accusing eyes. Then, without Farkas ever having expected this, she lifted her crutches and jumped towards him on one foot in the blink of an eye, screaming and brandishing her crutches like weapons. Instinctively, Farkas lifted an arm to protect his head, and a split second later, a crutch crashed into it. Farkas winced in pain as the crutch hit a wound, and, still too surprised to actually do something, he tried to retreat while the girls, still screaming like madwoman, punched him over and over again with one of her crutches, but soon his back hit a wall and there was nothing for him to do than hold his arms over his head in order for it not to get hit, and to try to explain himself.

"Stop it! I... I wasn't... It's not...", he yelled while getting hit again and again.  
"Thief! Intruder! Rapist! Begone! Begone, scum! Begone and never ever dare to come back!", she screamed, wildly swinging her crutches.

Then the door was closed.  
"Bronwen?" That was Maelys. Her voice was calm, but enquiring.  
The girl let go at once, her crutches hitting nothing but the ground once more, and she limped out of the kitchen in a remarkable speed. Still shocked, Farkas slowly sunk his sore arms, trying to catch his breath. The strongest of the Companions, beaten up by a little girl. He had rarely ever felt so humiliated in his life.  
"Ma!", she screeched. "There's a man in the kitchen! A man! He was stripping down naked! I saw it, he can't deny it! He was trying to do Gods know what! Throw him out, Ma! Throw him out! Call the guards!"  
"A man?", Maelys repeated in bewilderment. "I know there's a man. I let him in last night."  
"You let a strange man into our home?!", Bronwen asked, her voice still shrill.  
"Still _my_ home, dear", Maelys reminded her cordially. "Don't worry, he's not dangerous."  
"Have you seen his sword? Have you ever seen a sword that size before? Ever?", Bronwen demanded.

Maelys stepped into the kitchen, ignoring the girl. When she saw Farkas crouched against the wall like an idiot, rubbing his hurting arms, she just remarked: "I see Bronwen made you even a little less dangerous."  
She turned to her daughter. "Have you hit him?"  
"Of course I have. How was I to know he was not some rapist bastard?"  
"Touché." She turned back to Farkas. "I'm sorry about that. I should have warned her, but she was still asleep when I went to fetch supplies."  
"It's fine", Farkas answered, muttering under his breath: "I guess."  
"Good. I see you put on your clothes."  
"He put them _off_!", Bronwen corrected from outside of Farkas' view. "Look behind him."  
"That's his armor, dear. He's not sleeping in his armor. Why would he be wearing armor in the house?"  
Uneasy, Farkas eyed his armor. This was not the impression he had wanted to make. One saw him as an invalid, while the other saw him as a rapist. He felt sorry already, even for himself.  
"Anyway", Maelys continued, "I meant to say I brought some clothes for you, specifically so you don't have to wear your the freshly-cleaned ones. I could have given you some of Calvach's clothes to wear, but he wasn't as tall as you by far."  
"Under no circumstances is he wearing Fa's clothes!", Bronwen ranted.  
"That's for sure, he would rip right through them", her mother answered with friendly sarcasm, handing Farkas two articles of clothing. One was knee-length breeches, no doubt to be worn with boots, the other a long tunic.  
"Thank you", Farkas said, unsure whether he was expected to put them on right now or wait for the two women to go, because they made no attempts to do so. Thinking about it, she had personally stripped him almost naked and seen him in just his underwear the other evening and Bronwen wasn't in the room anyway, so he figured it was fine if he changed into the dry clothing, which he promptly, albeit clumsily, did.  
Maelys put her willow basket, from which an amazing scent ascended, onto the table and said: "Also, I brought breakfast. Won't you come in, Bronwen? We should it while it's still warm."  
The girl gazed into the kitchen and said: "No thanks, I'm not hungry. Excuse me."  
The went on to go upstairs, but Maelys said: "I brought one of Raelles loaves. Are you sure you want nothing?"  
Farkas, heaving himself upright and quickly being aided by Maelys in doing so, heard that Bronwen had stopped. A moment later, she came in, eyeing Farkas being helped by her mother suspiciously, and sat down onto one of the chairs, leaning her crutches against the wall.  
When Maelys guided Farkas to the bench, Bronwen's gaze became downright spiteful, even though she still said nothing. Maelys ignored her daughter.

"There we go", she said as Farkas sat down.  
She placed a plate in front of each of them, then took apples and duck eggs out of the basket, the latter probably collected from the ducks he had heard earlier. A steaming loaf of bread followed, and Farkas had never smelled a loaf of bread quite like that. It smelled sweet, herbal and mouth-watering like cake and made him realize just how hungry he was.  
"So, Bronwen, our guest's name is Farkas. Farkas, this is my daughter Bronwen", Maelys introduced.  
"Pleased to meet you", she said. It was pure verbiage.  
"My pleasure". he replied, hopefully sounding more earnest then she did.

When Maelys began cutting he bread, she asked: "Slept well, the two of you?"  
"Yes, thanks", Bronwen answered snippily, but without anger.  
"Quite so, thank you", Farkas said.  
"Really? You still look like a rag that was used to clean the floor, then wrung-out and hung over a bucket of ice-cold water, boy."  
"I'm good, really", Farkas tried to assure her. He didn't like to be made a fuss about.  
"A nice breakfast is going to help you bounce back", Maelys said and handed him a slice of bread.  
Without looking up, he knew that Bronwen was eyeing it. He took it and awkwardly held it out in her direction.  
"Thank you, but that won't be necessary", Maelys said and handed Bronwen a slice of her own.

Farkas laid the bread back onto his plate. As soon as Maelys had also cut a slice for herself, she took the butter from the cupboard and placed it in the middle of the table.  
In amicable silence – at least Farkas hoped it was amicable and that Bronwen and Maelys were not used to chatting wildly when there were no strangers on the table – they spread butter on the warm, soft bread. It melted into the brown slices and when Farkas ate, it was one of the best things he had ever had in his life. He tasted honey and lavender. The bread would have been wonderful cold and plain, but warm and with molten butter, it was simply a treat.

While they ate, Farkas inspected the women a little closer. Their slightly pointy ears and delicate frames indicated they were Bretons. Also, much to his surprise, he noted that his initial estimation of Bronwen's age had been wrong. She was petite and really small – the crown of her head probably reaching the middle of his chest – but she was not child anymore, as her movements and slight curves suggested. She was probably closer to fifteen or sixteen, about half his own age. Her hair had the reddish sheen of her mother's, but contrary to hers, Bronwen's was dark, a deep auburn which made her light complexion and eyes all the more noticeable. Her eyes were green, while Maelys' were hazel, so she probably had inherited those from her father.  
That made Farkas think of something.  
"Isn't your husband coming?", he asked Maelys.  
"He's dead, ice-brain!", Bronwen hissed.  
That left him dumbstruck for a moment, before he hastily said: "I'm sorry. I didn't know."  
"That's right, you didn't know, so there is no reason to get angry at you for it", Maelys reassured him, but she was looking at Bronwen.  
They continued their meal, silent again, everyone getting another slice of bread and a cup of freshly brewed tea, until Bronwen asked: "So, where did you come from, Farkas?" The way she pronounces his name made it sound like "carcass", presumably what she wanted to make him into.  
"I had a mission close to Pinemoon Cave", he answered, unsure what kind of answer she expected. She stared at him as if she was interrogating him.  
"A mission? So you are a mercenary." It was obvious from her tone of voice that she didn't think a lot of mercenaries.  
But neither did he himself.  
"Mercenaries are but less desperate highwaymen. I am a Companion."  
"A Companion", Bronwen echoed and he thought there was a slightly mocking edge to her voice. "So you kill people for money?"  
Farkas hesitated for a moment, then he replied: "Yes, sometimes. But..."  
"That makes you a mercenary", Bronwen said and bit into her bread.  
"Bronwen, please", Maelys admonished calmly.  
Farkas decided it was best to just leave it at that. "Either way, I got wounded and Maelys found me."  
"I figured. So, what were you doing close to Pinemoon Cave?", Bronwen asked, or rather demanded.  
"I was eliminating some of the Silver Hand."  
"Silver Hand?" Bronwen frowned.  
"They are a group of werewolf hunters", Farkas answered without thinking.  
"Why would anyone be interested in killing werewolf hunters?", she wondered.  
Hastily, Farkas added: "They also threaten and kill civilians all the time. They will basically attack anyone a mile around their base."

"I see", Bronwen replied, biting into her apple, and the conversation was over again.  
Maelys asked: "You are probably used to a less... feminine breakfast, aren't you?"  
Farkas was, but he sure as hell wouldn't complain. Breakfast as Jorrvaskr was as manly as it got, and it was all he knew, but he also knew they didn't have bread like this.  
"I'm fine, thank you", he said, but Maelys was already on her feet, inspecting the cupboard.  
"Let me see what we have to offer. Hmm...", she sounded, eventually taking a piece of thick, savoury-looking yellow cheese and cutting it in half, placing it on his plate. Then she opened a lidded pot and took a piece cold roast from it. She cut three generous slices from it and handed him those, too.  
Farkas' mouth watered as he looked at the much-needed nourishment.  
"Thank you, Maelys."  
"No problem. We can easily spare some, don't worry."  
While he was still eating, Bronwen said: "Excuse me."  
Farkas watched as she got up and grabbed her crutches, leaving the kitchen. He hadn't had a good look at her body, and he had figured that one of her legs was broken and slightly pulled towards her body under her skirt, but now, as her knee hit the inside of her skirt, he noticed much to his surprise that the leg simply stopped at the knee.  
Maelys didn't protest, but she said: "By the way, Halbr mentioned he has almost finished your wooden leg. And remember we have to dress your wound later. I will dress it when I dress Farkas'."  
"Sure", Bronwen replied, then the front door closed shut.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, folks! Chapter three already! Thanks to everyone who made it to here, especially to garfunky for her kind review. This is the chapter where Bronwen decides not to be a bitch anymore. She was not intended as a tsundere character in the first place, so I'm sorry if she seemed like that. I know there's not a lot of stuff "happening" in this story, but as I said beforehand, this is character rather than action (or smut) driven. Also, a short note on the first chapter: I have no idea whether that war paint of Farkas' and the other Companions is permanent or not, but I honestly can't picture these guys getting up every morning and doing their make-up :D So, in my head canon, these are tattoos. It would make sense for the Companions to have permanent war paint, anyway. But enough rambling, onto the story!**

Maelys turned to Farkas again.  
"Take your time eating. It's not like you're going anywhere anyway. And please excuse my daughter's behaviour. She usually is not a rude person, she just... met you under unfavourable circumstances. She is going through a bit of a rough time right now. We both are, but she's also sixteen. Please don't blame her."  
"I don't. I've had much worse", Farkas answered, only too vividly thinking of his reputation as an idiot among the Companions. Also, Maelys was the one who had taken him in unconditionally, tended to his wounds and supplied him with food, not the other way round. He failed to see why she would have to apologise to him for anything at all.  
"Thank you. I will talk to her later. Perhaps you can sleep in her bed for the rest of your stay, while she shares my bed", she suggested.  
"I can't really ask for that. The carpet is fine", he insisted. Bronwen surely wouldn't be happy with an arrangement like that.  
"Your wounds say otherwise", Maelys said. "See it that way: The better your place to sleep is, the less prolonged your stay will be."  
Farkas hated admitting it, but it made sense.  
"Also, I will ask Bronwen for one of her healing potions. She doesn't like to drink them anyway. She hasn't been eating well lately in general, which is why I made the effort to fetch this nice bread, so it's good for you, at least", Maelys rambled, seeming unfazed by her daughter's situation. Farkas was pretty sure it was a facade, seeing how dearly she cared for her daughter.  
"I shouldn't be eating it, then", he said, glaring at the rest of the buttered slice in his hand.  
"There is so much of this bread in the world. I am sure Raelle will gladly make us a new loaf as soon as we need one. Besides, your appetite is a good sign. By the way", she added, "I presume there are people who should know you won't be returning anytime soon?"  
"Actually, yes", he said, thankful she had touched upon the subject herself. "I'd like to send a note to Jorrvaskr."  
"I think that could be arranged."  
"Thank you."  
She picked up the blankets from the floor and neatly folded them. A pang of bad conscious overcame Farkas for not doing it himself and sitting nearby, eating her food, while she did it, but he said nothing. He knew full well he was not of much use in his current condition.  
Maelys kept herself occupied with boiling out a new set of bandages until he had finished his meal.  
"Feeling better now?", she asked.  
He actually did, and significantly so. Of course, he was still hurting and didn't dare to move much or even breathe too deeply, but the feeling of helpless exhaustion was gone after the good meal.  
"Yes. Thanks again."  
"You look better, too. Less pallid", she decided. "Let me feel your pulse, yes?"  
He didn't answer, but she immediately got to work anyway.  
"You've lost an awful amount of blood", she diagnosed, counting the beats of his pulse on his arm. "But at least I don't think you have a fever."  
"Me neither", Farkas said.  
"Headache?"  
"Slightly." That was an understatement, but he wouldn't mention that.  
"I'm guessing you would like to rest a bit more, anyway?"  
"Yes, but I will make do with the carpet", he assured her, making an effort to get up, but Maelys stopped him and said: "Not yet. We will make you a nice warm spiced mead, what about it?"  
It sounded delicious and like less pain. "Yes, please."  
He waited sitting on the table while she quickly, but without a rush, prepared the mead. The quiet, even though he didn't think he could bear it forever, had a healing quality to it. While the mead warmed up, Maelys helped Farkas onto the carpet again and placed one of the blankets over his shoulders.  
When she finally handed him the cup, he said: "I've thanked you about a hundred times already, but I want to thank you again. If it weren't for you, I'd probably already be dead."  
"One more reason it's my pleasure. We need all the brave people slaying monsters and murderers we can get these days", Maelys just said. "I will be around the house all day, so if you need something, just call for me. Don't strain yourself."  
Farkas nodded, sipping on the mead that instantly warmed his body and calmed his thoughts. Maelys left the room again, leaving him alone, but he felt welcomed and homey anyway. He never had experienced being part of a family in the traditional way. Not that he had had the feeling he had been missing out on something, but he had to admit it was really nice to have someone to care for and look after you like that. Maelys was such a warm person and had just welcomed him like an old friend, asking no unnecessary questions, not treating him distantly or making him feel like a stranger. You didn't meet people like her very often, especially not during times like these. Could it be a Breton thing? Most Bretons he knew were rather haughty, though. As Farkas sipped more of the spicy mead, he declined thinking about it. Everything was fine, and better than he could have asked for. He would have to leave eventually, but as long as he was here, he could as well enjoy it. When he finished the mead, he carefully laid down on the carpet and drifted into a pleasant nap.

He was woken again by a hand to his cheek. He groaned softly, but his eyes behind their lids felt like unripe chestnuts, not ready to be opened without great force.  
"Whew, he's fast asleep." That was Maelys, who let out a clement sigh before, to his bewilderment, softly patting his hair. Her tone of voice sounded good-humoured when she continued: "Great. That's like having two children with terrible sleep schedules in the house instead of just one."

That made Farkas feel belittled enough to grumble: "I'm not a child, and not yours to boot."  
"Ah, your anger awoke you. You're a true warrior." She sounded jovially mocking, but mocking nonetheless. Her sarcasm vanished, though, when she continued: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to condescend you, I was just thinking aloud."  
Farkas stretched carefully in order to not accidentally disturb his wounds.  
While he sat up, Maelys went on: "But in any case, you're awake. That's good. I was just going to take a look at your wounds and change your bandages."  
The thought of having the snug bandages ripped from his sensitive wounds was not a nice one, but he knew there was no point in complaining. He could consider himself glad to have someone to do it for him instead of having to do it himself.  
Maelys went to the door and called: "Bronwen! Will you come over to have your wound dressed?"  
He heard the clutter of wood against wood, then the stomping of the crutches on the stairs. Maelys helped him get up and on a chair she had adjusted for him beforehand.  
"Undress yourself, will you?", she asked, and he began doing so, albeit reluctantly for he remembered Bronwen's initial reaction to him all too well. Maelys left the kitchen, presumably to fetch some things.  
Indeed, Bronwen looked at him suspiciously when she entered the kitchen. She still did when she sat down on the other chair and even when she leaned her crutches against the wall.  
"You can sleep in my room", she then abruptly said, much to his surprise.  
Farkas felt slightly embarrassed.  
He replied: "You don't need to do this. I've slept in worse places than a carpet in front of a fireplace."  
"I don't care where you have or haven't slept before. Ma asked me if you could sleep in my bed, and it sounded sensible."  
Farkas didn't quite know what to answer, so he just said: "Thank you, then."  
Maelys entered the kitchen again, carrying an arm full of bandages and a few other things which she laid on the table. She then went over to Farkas and began removing the bandage around his neck. It was unpleasant and predictably painful – even in spite of Maelys' gentle hands – and he tried his best not to flinch when the gore-caked bandage was ripped off the sewn-shut gash with a soft, moist ripping noise.  
Looking over to her daughter, Maelys proposed: "Why don't you take off your bandage already, so I can take a look at it when I'm done with Farkas?"  
"Because Farkas is _here_ ", Bronwen answered fiercely.  
"I noticed", Maelys said.  
Uneasy, Farkas asked: "How about you care for Bronwen first, and I go somewhere else meanwhile?"  
But Maelys declined: "Have a look at yourself, you're not going anywhere. Bron, what's the matter?"  
"I'm not lifting my skirt and showing off my leg in front of some strange man", the young woman insisted. Farkas had heard that from quite a few women regarding modesty, some noblewomen even extending it to just the ankles, but he didn't understand why. Was there something dirty about legs? Surely women had to know that men knew that women had legs just like men did? He had never asked, just accepted it and left it at that. He then realised that the wound they were talking about had to be the one where her leg had been amputated. No wonder she was hesitant to show it, even in front of a man who was badly injured himself. For some reason, he has assumed that she had been missing her leg for some time now, but thinking about it, her arms didn't look like she had been hauling herself around on crutches for years, and she wasn't particularly graceful with those, neither.  
"Which is a good thing in principle", her mother lauded, inspecting Farkas' neck wound, "but I'm pretty sure Farkas has seen many a woman's leg in his life. Haven't you?", she asserted.  
"Of course. At Jorrvaskr, men and women sleep in the same dormitory and many female fighters prefer leaving their legs naked under their tunics anyway", he said. Not that he didn't appreciate a shapely female leg, but he had never seen naked legs alone as something... sexual.  
Bronwen still looked suspicious, but his words seemed to have mollified her enough for her to lift her light blue skirt. Farkas looked away just to give her that much privacy.  
"Good girl", Maelys said, seemingly satisfied with the conversation's outcome.  
Applying some ointment on his neck wound, she decided: "The wound is looking good. No more blood, no pus, normal scab. Not every man would have shrugged a wound like that off like you are doing here. But you're a strong boy, aren't you?"  
"I'm not a boy in the first place, but I like to think of myself as strong", he replied.  
"Yes. How old are you, anyway?", Maelys wondered.  
"Thirty-one."  
"Thirty-one!", she repeated. "I would have estimated about five years younger than that!"  
He wondered whether that was because he somehow behaved immaturely or because he was so well-built, but he didn't ask, and she didn't explain. Bronwen next to him snorted softly.  
Maelys dressed his neck wound in a fresh bandage and proceeded to do so with all the other ones, too. Luckily, none of them was festering, getting inflamed or somehow else looking bad. He was glad for it. They were giving him enough problems as it was. Maelys applied ointment on all the worse ones and wrapped them up afterward. From time to time, he felt Bronwen's gaze on him, but he wasn't sure what to make of it, especially not since he was still rather tired.

Maelys seemed to notice that, because she said: "As soon as I cared for Bronwen, I will prepare you a nice footbath in order to leverage that blood circulation of yours a bit."  
That struck a cord. Farkas could accept wound treatment, getting washed when he was full of gore, being wrapped in blankets when he was too tired to do so himself, drinking warm spiced mead for pain relief, and receiving help getting up and around when in a shape like his current, but somewhere, he needed to draw a line.  
"That won't be necessary", he decided. He was not some wimp who needed to be spoon-fed after breaking a nail. He was not dead, so his blood circulation was not as bad as to need the help of a _footbath_.  
But Maelys wasn't listening, already coming over to Bronwen.  
"Do you want to soak your foot, too?", she asked.  
After a moment of hesitation, she answered: "Yes. If I get a different tub."  
"You will", Maelys promised.  
Bronwen looked over to Farkas and asked: "Are we having our footbaths in front of the house?"  
"Uh, fine", he replied without thinking, then quickly shut his mouth after realising he had just accepted getting the footbath in the first place. He moaned softly and leaned back. As long as none of the other Companions, not even Vilkas, found out about that, everything was good. It could be worse than having a footbath with a one-legged girl who just beat you up, right?


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi folks! First of all, thank you to Rabz for your sweet review! This chapter features more dialogue and characterisation, essentially. Farkas and Bronwen get to know each other a bit better. I hope the focus is not so much on Bronwen as to make her look like a Mary Sue, though. Please let me know!**

Twenty minutes later, Farkas and Bronwen were indeed sitting on a bench in front of the house, having footbaths. Maelys only had one small wooden tub, so Bronwens small single foot stood in a bucket. Steam curled up from the hot water, melting into the crisp summer sky. Twigs of lavender, camomile and sage as well as pine needles swam in their footbaths, filling the air with their pleasant aroma. The bath made feel Farkas more awake and alert indeed.  
"Sorry about this morning", Bronwen said as abruptly as her earlier announcement that he could sleep in her bed. She looked like she really meant it, albeit not at all ashamed of it.  
"It's alright. I've had much worse", he answered.  
"Stop saying that. Just because there's worse doesn't mean it's good."  
"I suppose you're right about that", Farkas said, not really caring, then added: "And I'm sorry for asking about your father."  
Her gaze trailed away at the nearby mountains and she shrugged, the kind of shrug that indicates the person is not comfortable talking about it rather than not caring or not knowing what to say. Her reaction made Farkas think that her father had only died recently. What with Maelys' cheerful behaviour, it was hard to think of it as that of a woman who had recently lost her husband.  
"Ma is right. You didn't know about that and I shouldn't have insulted you", Bronwen eventually said.  
Farkas felt stupid for bringing the topic up again. Trying to make her think happier thoughts, and thinking about how professionally Maelys had removed his armor, he asked: "Was he a fighter?"  
"A hunter", she corrected. "He taught me his craft, and we always went out into the mountains together. Until the bear attacked us." Her voice trailed off at that last sentence.

"Bear?", Farkas asked before he could think. "Did it kill him?"  
"Obviously, or he would be still around", Bronwen replied, a sharpness in her voice that faded when she added: "Sorry."  
Farkas decided to remain silent in order to not add further salt to the wound, but after a moment Bronwen continued: "It probably would have killed me, too, if I hadn't already fainted after it chewed my leg off, and it had left me for dead."

Abruptly, Farkas turned his head to face her. The bear that killed her father only a short time ago on a trip they had done for fun had also taken her leg, leaving her with a crippling injury that would forever remind her of her father's death. He could only imagine how vulnerable she had to feel and how afraid she must have been when she had unexpectedly encountered a stranger in her home. He hadn't been angry at her for that beforehand, but now he felt downright sympathetic for her.

"Where?", he asked.  
"What, 'where'?", she demanded, turning towards him herself.  
"Where was your leg amputated?", he asked.  
She laughed in disbelief. "You, a stranger, ask me how much the bear that killed my father not a month ago ripped off of one of my limbs?"  
"Yes", he answered earnestly. All he wanted was to know whether he could tell her something consolatory, aside from the usual – and usually wrong – set phrases like "Everything will be fine". He didn't care much whether he was being blunt, he just wanted to know if it was a thing he could tell her.  
Bronwen looked away again. "Just below my knee, if you must know."  
There he had it.

"That's good", Farkas said. When Bronwen turned to him again and indignantly opened her mouth, he added: "What I'm trying to say is that it is better to have your leg missing below than above the knee. I've seen men and women with a leg that was wooden below the knee move about like they were born that way. It's much harder without a knee. With a good wooden leg, you will be running, riding, shooting and kneeling again in no time."  
"I can't even ride, but thank you", Bronwen said, a faint smile on her lips. She seemed grateful for someone who could tell her for sure what was to come. Softer, she added: "Still, I will always think of Fa when..." She quieted suddenly. "I'm sorry", she then said a bit louder and shrugged again. "I shouldn't whine. Ma says Fa wouldn't like me to be so gloomy, and she's right. It's hard, but I'll try my best. I don't even know why I'm telling you this." She laughed nervously, then wiggled her toes. "Walking around on one foot all the time is hard, you know."  
"I can imagine", Farkas catered to her attempt to talk about something more light-hearted.

After a moment of silence, she asked: "What about your family?"  
"The Companions are each other's family", he explained, "but I have a twin brother, Vilkas."  
"Identical or fraternal?", she wondered.  
"Identical." In looks, at least.  
"Sweet. I've always wanted a twin sister when I was a child. I thought that twins had twice the fun", she admitted.  
"Believe me, it's not as fun as stories make it out to be", Farkas sighed.  
"I figured. When I got older, at least."  
"Don't get me wrong. I love Vilkas and I would trust him with my life and most of the time with making decisions and doing the thinking for me, but he can be quite strenuous at times."  
"Is he rash, then?", Bronwen asked.  
"No, that's not it. He's... aloof. Sometimes, he lets me know how much of an idiot I am just for the sake of letting me know." Farkas wasn't sure why he was telling her that. It wasn't something he usually did, but he figured that after learning so much of her, it was alright to let her know something about himself.  
"You're not an idiot", she decided.  
"The Companions sure think different."  
"All of them?"  
"Except for Kodlak, the Harbinger. He calls me good-hearted, but I guess he means the same thing."

"Maybe they are idiots and in their idiocy just don't realise that you are smarter than them", Bronwen suggested.

"I don't think so. Vilkas, at least, is one of the smartest, most well-read people I've ever met."  
"Then maybe you just look stupid in comparison to him and the others repeat what he says about your intellect?"  
"I don't know. I also don't care", Farkas said, and it was true. He lived and worked there and with them, and they needed him, stupid as they thought he was.  
"So you like being an idiot?", Bronwen asked in a teasing manner.  
"Who would like being an idiot if they had a choice?", he asked.  
"People who are too insecure to make their own decisions, for example."  
"That's not it", he negated.  
"You just said you like your brother to make decisions for you", she reminded him, a smile still on her face.  
"I'm not insecure", Farkas insisted. "He's just the smarter one, why not let him make the decisions?"  
"You also just said your harbinger called you good-hearted. Maybe he doesn't mean 'stupid', but 'gullible' or 'easily exploitable'."  
"You're a sassy one. Would you also say that if I were healthy and in full armor?", he asked. He didn't like her words, but only because he knew they were quite probably true.  
"Perhaps not", she admitted. "But then, you would also not be sitting next to me in front of my Ma's house, enjoying a footbath she has prepared for you."  
"You have a point there." As it was, he actually was _enjoying_ the footbath. He also liked the conversation. At Jorrvaskr, he was never alone and there were always people around him. The mead hall was big, without any walls in between. In comparison, Maelys' house felt almost cramped, if comfortable, and at the same time very empty.

"What about your parents? Are they Companions, too?", Bronwen asked after a moment of hesitation, the subject obviously touchy to her.  
"My mother, I don't remember", he said upfront. "It was my father who brought us to the Companions. He went to the Great War and never returned."  
"Oh. I'm sorry", she said with real regret. "You must've been very young back then."  
"I was, but Kodlak took care of Vilkas and me. He was like a second father to us." He thought about it for a moment, knowing that Vilkas would not have approved of the phrasing. "Like an uncle, maybe. Like a grandfather", he awkwardly tried to adjust his statement before adding: "There was also Tilma. She lives with the Companions, but she is not a fighter. She is our housekeeper and she also cared for my brother and me when we were little. She's the closest thing we ever had to a mother.  
"I see. So you grew up to be a Companion."  
"Yes. It was all I ever knew or wanted", he replied.

Then, Maelys stepped out of the house, two towels and three boots in her arms. Farkas quickly held out his arms to take his share of the load, and she thankfully handed it to him. He placed the boots on the bench next to him and unfolded the towel.  
When she gave Bronwen her towel and boot, the young woman, in the deliberate tone of a childish telltale, squealed: "Ma, Farkas called himself an idiot!"  
"That's not a nice thing to say, even about yourself", Maelys answered thoughtfully. "Why would you fancy yourself an idiot?"  
"It just... I compared myself to my brother, Vilkas", he tried to explain himself, somehow having the feeling he owed this nice lady an explanation.  
"So you have a brother, how nice", she said.  
"A _twin_ brother!", Bronwen added.  
Ignoring it and beginning to dry his feet, Farkas went on: "Vilkas is better than me at... speaking. He is also well-read."  
"I see", Maelys answered. "But I was always of the mind that it is less important to be a good reader, or good student, or good historian, than to actually be good. Do you know what I mean?"  
She set his boots next to the small tub so he could slip right into them, and then leaned Bronwen's crutches, which laid on the ground, against the wall in order for her daughter to reach them more easily.

"Yes", Farkas said, watching that. "I think I see what you mean by 'good'."  
Maelys poured the water from the footbaths into the coarse grass and asked: "Would you two like to eat outside?"  
"I sure would. What about you?", Bronwen asked, turning to Farkas.  
"Me too", he said.  
The meadow's sweet scent and the soft song of the birds and locusts calmed his beast blood, which felt constricted in the house, so taking the meal outside seemed like a nice idea, especially since said beast blood gave him very conflicting instincts anyway. On the one hand, it asked him to lay down, curl up and sleep everything off, on the other, it ordered him to push Maelys and Bronwen away from him as they were potential dangers and make a run for it. He was used to suppress insensible notions like these, but calming his wolf nature down seemed like a good idea anyway. He hoped sincerely it would stay a secret to these two women.


	5. Chapter 5

**Heya! Thank you so much for the reviews, garfunky and Kyle Chaulklin, they are very much appreciated.**

 **garfunky: I'm so grateful you said that! This essence is what I really wanted to capture and it's nice to read that I was able to deliver it, and so early on in the story, too!  
Kyle Chaulklin: Haha, I never really saw Farkas as a "hard" guy, what with the first thing he does after transforming into a werewolf in front of you is apologising and being all sheepish. We're on the same page anyway ;)**

 **The song lines in this chapter, I invented myself. I guess there are more songs in Skyrim other than the sorry few ones we get to hear in game, so I made some up for the sake of the story. Sorry for the rather abrupt end of the chapter, but it would have gotten too long otherwise. What would you think about chapters from Bronwen's pov?**

In the same basket she had brought breakfast in earlier, Maelys brought two bowls of a thick stew, carrying a third in her free hand. She handed it to Farkas, then one of the two in the basket to Bronwen.

Placing the basket on the floor, she said: "Excuse me.", and went inside again, returning with a chair on which she sat down before taking her own bowl.  
Farkas noticed that his own helping was much more generous than Maelys' and almost twice as big as Bronwen's.  
"Enjoy, you two", Maelys said, as though he and Bronwen were somehow members of the same group. Since she obviously thought of him as a "boy", they might be in her head.  
"Thank you", "Thanks", he and Bronwen answered simultaneously and they began their meal.  
The stew was spicy and tasty. He tasted potatoes, carrots, mushrooms and little apple pieces in there as well as chunks from the roast of which he had had a bit for breakfast.  
When he finished, Maelys asked: "Another bowl?"  
"Yes, please", he said, assuming there was plenty.  
"Me too, please!", Bronwen called, holding out her just emptied bowl.  
"Really?", Maelys asked in surprise.  
"Please", her daughter just repeated.  
They all had a second helping, enjoying the stew in the crisp air of early afternoon, while the sun shone on their skin and a mild breeze blew into their faces, but on the horizon, dark clouds were already merging into a menacing-looking stronghold.  
"Do you get a lot of bad weather here?", Farkas wondered.  
Maelys said: "The problem with the weather is not that it's generally bad, just that it often can't decide on whether to stay or leave. Most clouds carrying rain, hail or snow want to empty themselves before passing over the mountains to High Rock. One moment, it's raining cats, dogs and pitchforks, and the next, the sun is shining brightly. Let's see if this here thunderstorm will bother or just pass us."  
She turned to him.  
"By the way", she added, "I brought some ink and paper, so you and write a note to Whiterun. We can give it one of our friends in the close by village. The next one to travel to Solitude, where they can give it a courier. I can't promise how long the message will take to be delivered, though."  
"That's very good. Thank you." It relieved Farkas that he could let his family in Jorrvaskr know that he was safe. Vilkas would no doubt have taken the next best horse and searched for him personally, should he not have returned next week or so. Not that he wouldn't have appreciated seeing his brother, but it was easier to just let him know he wouldn't be returning just now.  
Maelys collected the empty bowls and said: "I'll place everything on the table. I have no wax to close it, but don't worry, nobody will read it."  
That was of no importance to Farkas, but he nodded gratefully anyway.  
"Then let's get in and get it done", Maelys decided, laying a hand on Farkas' shoulder to help him up.  
"Need a crutch?", Bronwen asked, holding the one in her left hand in his direction.  
That flustered him slightly; a crippled girl was offering him half her walking aid just because she could. He didn't know whether to feel insulted or grateful, but he knew like Oblivion he'd respond to that offer. Even thinking about Maelys' explanation about being "good", it was hard for him not to feel humbled by that, even though that was probably not at all what Bronwen had intended.  
"Won't be necessary", he said, slipping into his boots and heaving himself into a standing position, careful not to burden his injured left leg.  
Instantly, Maelys supported him by gripping his left arm in height of his armpit, stabilizing this position by firmly gripping the crook of his arm also, slightly pushing it in the opposite direction. Maelys was taller than her daughter, but still small in comparison to himself, and he wondered where she got that strength from.  
"I see", Bronwen teased.

He gave her a disgruntled look, but ignored her otherwise. Then, with Maelys' help, he went inside and to the kitchen table. Like she had said, paper, ink and a writing quill were all standing there, ready for use. A small fabric case was laying next to it. When Farkas sat down, she demonstrated it to him, opening it. It was a small toiletry kit, containing a comb, a shaving razor, a small mirror and a piece of soap, dried foam still sticking to it.  
"You can use it during your stay", she explained. "It was Calvach's, but... well, he won't be needing it anymore."  
He thought he heard a hint of sadness in her voice, but didn't comment on that and instead just thanked her. He couldn't remember the last time he had thanked someone so often in so short a timeframe. Bronwen followed in behind them, gave the toiletry kit a short gaze, but said nothing.

Just when Farkas had unrolled a piece of paper, Maelys said: "Let's do the dishes, shall we?"  
Farkas looked up, but his host just told him: "You write your letter. The dishes aren't that much work for the two of us to do."  
She went outside. Yesterday's and today's dishes were forming a small pile on a dresser. Bronwen fetched a dishcloth from said dresser, then sat down on one of the chairs on the table. She waited for her mother to return, which happened after a short rumbling, presumably from placing the small tub and the bucket to where they belonged. Maelys took another bucket she had hung over the fire and poured the water in it into a big tin bowl. She began washing the dishes, then handed each piece to Bronwen, who wiped them with her towel and neatly stacked them. Maelys began singing a song, and Bronwen sang along with her.  
"Last night I had a dream,  
Just guess what I have been,  
I have been a virgin queen..."  
While listening, Farkas finally dipped the quill's tip into the inkpot and began to write.

 _Dear Vilkas_ , he wrote, then hesitated for a moment. He didn't want to specify where he was and with whom he was residing. It wasn't as though he had no enemies and no one who would like to see him dead, and he never knew if a courier wouldn't be attacked by someone. He would have loved for Vilkas to show up here and visit him while he was healing, but it wasn't worth the risk.

 _During my commission, I got wounded and won't be returning as early as I had hoped for. There is no need to worry about myself, though. It's not really bad, just too bad to travel. Shelter, woundcare, food and generally everything I need is provided for me. I will return as soon as I can. Give Kodlak my best regards and Tilma a kiss from me._

 _Love, Farkas_

While he was slowly writing, he listened to Maelys and Bronwen's sweet singing and the soft crackling of the fire and, once again, thought just how odd the situation was with these two treating him like they had known him for all their lives. They had taken him in like others might take in a relative or neighbour who was paying them a spontaneous visit, not like a stranger at all. What Farkas marveled at most was all the sheer kindness Maelys afforded him and Bronwen had obviously decided to muster towards him, too. It was especially wondrous since it was only shortly after their husband and father's death, when most people would have decided to clam up. Perhaps that was just their way of dealing with the loss? But their kindness felt so genuine, especially after Bronwen's initial reaction to him rather vacated the theory that overwhelming kindness was a coping strategy of hers.

His arms still felt sore.

"The shepherd led the maid to a vale so steep,  
His gaze into her twinkling eyes was so deep,  
Kisses he gave her and sweet words he said,  
The girl's cheeks bloomed like poppies so red..."

He took a closer look at the two still singing women. The similarities were undeniable, especially regarding the heart-shapes of their faces that seemed common among Bretons, and their eyes. While Maelys' nose was elongated and pointy, though, Bronwen didn't seem to have grown out of her button nose, which gave her face a childlike quality in spite of her low brows that spoke of determination and looked alike to her mother's. Neither woman's face was really gentle in resting, but, as he had learned, both could adopt the mildest expression. Both had lean bodies lacking in bold feminine curves, and muscular legs – or, in Bronwen's case, a leg – but long, graceful necks, and wore their hair in simple plaits that suited them well.  
After carefully ensuring with his fingertips that the ink was dry, he folded the letter up twice and leaned back. He then proceeded watching the women, who were doing their work so routinely, so comfortably that it almost seemed like fun. In Jorrvaskr, it was always messy, even with Tilma doing her best to keep everything neat and tidy. One couldn't expect an old lady like her to clean up after a horde of drunken, boisterous warriors leading stereotypical bachelor and bachelorette lives all in one none too big dormitory and mead hall. Farkas kept his own room rather tidy, but it was not like he liked doing chores. Fighting was easier and more pleasant than tiding up, but Maelys and Bronwen didn't look reluctant at all.  
Eventually, Maelys notices his gaze just when they had finished their current song.  
"Is something the matter?", she asked.  
Awkwardly, Farkas leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the table.  
"Nothing", he responded.  
"You watched us like we were staging a play", Bronwen laughed.  
"I was just wondering", Farkas clarified a bit embarassed, but kept silent as to what he was wondering about.  
Of course, Maelys asked.  
"Wondering about something in particular, or generally?"  
It was not like he could have lied to her. Also, he could as well pose the question and hope for a satisfactory answer.  
"I was wondering about why you not only took me in, but are also treating me as a guest."  
"That's right. I took you in. That makes you a guest in my house. Last time I looked, it was called 'scared hospitality' and even Skyrim had that", Maelys explained in friendly sarcasm.  
"As a friend", Farkas corrected quickly, but at once felt stupid. Calling himself Maelys and Bronwen's friend seemed like a privilege and he didn't do anything giving him the right to claim it.  
Maelys, who had been busy with the dishes, turned to face him. She didn't seem to mind.  
"We would live in a sad world, would everyone just wait for everyone else to be unconditionally friendly to them, and by the Nine, there aren't enough people like that already", she said, her voice firm, but blithe, and a smile on her lips. "Most people have to be shown how to be friendly before they can be friendly themselves. I know that for sure. Otherwise, far less people would be asking me precisely that question you just asked."  
"Wow", he sounded, truly impressed with that wisdom. "I never thought about that, to be honest."  
"Only makes sense. You were raised a warrior, after all. Unconditional friendliness is rather counterproductive in a line of work like that", Bronwen answered.  
"Just imagine a world where everyone is friendly to each other. There would be no need for warriors", Maelys thought aloud.  
"Wouldn't that be great", her daughter added, then, turning to Farkas again: "What would you have become if you hadn't become a warrior?"  
"I don't know", he answered. He had never truly thought about that. To him, that seemed as if a plant wondered what it would be like to grow in different soil: He had grown and was stuck where he was and he had everything he could ask for there, so there was no point in pondering about "what if"s. Vilkas, he imagined, would probably have become a scholar or even a mage, which was an uncomfortable notion. He was distrustful of magic. Taking a moment thinking about it, he slowly said: "A hunter, perhaps. Animals and beasts are still posing threats to people even when all the people are nice to each other."  
"So you are a defender. A guardian. That's great", Maelys replied.  
"Maybe a blacksmith", he went on. "I like forging."  
"Did you forge your own armor and weapon?", Bronwen asked, eyes big, and pointing to the corner where said belongings of his were still neatly leaning against the wall.  
"Gods no", he replied, rolling his eyes. "There's the Skyforge just next to Jorrvaskr, and it is run by Eorlund Grey-Mane, the best blacksmith of Skyrim. Why should I bother crafting my own armor and weapons if he supplies me with those he makes?"  
"Touché", Bronwen said, continuing to wipe the dishes. "So you learn from him?"  
"Why would I want to learn from anyone else if I can learn from the best?", he answered.  
"Of course." When Bronwen snickered at her own silliness, hitting the palm of her hand against her forehead, Maelys chipped in: "It's good to see how well you two get along."  
"Especially after that first meeting of ours", Bronwen agreed with a sheepish smile.  
"I suppose it wouldn't be hard for anyone to get along with you two", Farkas said, shrugging carefully in order to not disturb his wounds.  
"Which leads us back to the topic of friendliness", Maelys snickered.  
Farkas smiled, but didn't reply.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for my long absence! First, there was no time to continue this story, and then, I kinda forgot about it, oh my... I hope you can forgive my silliness! Have a slightly longer chapter as a compensation and be assure the next one is already being written!  
**

Rather apropos of nothing, Bronwen said, fixing Farkas with that fierce gaze of hers: "Your company is nice. I've been alone much of the time since... since the incident. Ma has to do her own work as well as Fa's, I can't help her as of now and it's not easy for me to get anywhere. I really appreciate you being here."  
The sounded so earnest and bold that Farkas didn't know what to respond for a moment. Maelys affectionately ruffled her hair like a child's before she took the tin bowl and went to empty it outside.  
"After all your mother has done for me, being pleasant to be around is the least I can do", he finally stated, feeling a bit uneasy. "It's an honour to know you think about me that way."

That made her smile, and her usually so spirited-looking facial expression softened considerately.  
"Don't you have friends, though?", he wondered.  
She faltered for a moment, but the didn't look regretful as she was searching for the right words. "Not really", she eventually responded. "There's a village nearby, Mjors. It's only a handful of people, though, and most of them older. My parents' age, I mean. There are two children, but they're ten and twelve years old, respectively, so not really what I could be friends with. I'm used to being around adults. Some spoil me a bit, and to be honest, I like it. But I can't say I was ever longing for friends. I was always so content with just Ma and Fa. They have always been my best friends."  
Thinking about it, she seemed like a person who was used to being exclusively around adults. Farkas knew that from himself, even though he had always still had Vilkas.  
While Bronwen had been speaking, Maelys had returned. She put the bowl on its place again and put the dishes and cutlery away.  
"Spoiled you are indeed, young lady", she teased lovingly and once again ruffled Bronwen's hair. The young woman gave her an obedient smile. These two clearly loved each other.

"I'll be out on the field, if you need me", Maelys then said and went outside.  
"You're cultivating a field?", Farkas asked, still toying with the folded letter.  
"My parents always believed in self-sufficiency", Bronwen explained. "To a degree, at least. Fa went hunting, and Ma worked in the fields. It was always like that."  
"I could have sworn your mother is a healer", Farkas wondered.  
"Yea, she's also a healer. She doesn't call herself that, but whenever a woman gives birth, or a cow sneezes, or a dog behaves wildly, everyone goes to her for help. There aren't enough people around here to make a living off that, though. So field-work it is. We grow everything we need and then some so we can sell it or trade it for other things we need", she answered.  
"Sounds simple enough", he reasoned.  
"You look satisfied by that", Bronwen stated, smiling a teasing smile.  
He replied: "Simple is good. I don't have a nerve for fanciness, be it of lifestyle or of character, or whatever."  
"Judging from my experience, that's a general Nord thing", she said.  
"From a Breton's point of view, perhaps", Farkas contradicted. "Were you born in High Rock?"  
"No, and neither was Ma. Only Fa is a born Breton, so to speak... or was." Her voice turned hollow with that last statement, but she quickly continued: "Ma came from the Rift originally. She met Fa when he was visiting some relatives there. They fell in love and because crime seemed to be abundant in the Rift back then, they came to Haafingar."  
She sighed with a condescending smile that appeared to be addressed to herself, because she said: "I'm sorry. You didn't ask for the family chronicles, I shouldn't be talking that much about it."  
"I don't mind", Farkas said quickly. "In Jorrvaskr, I always have company and always listen to someone, so I'm used to it." To be more precise, it kind of soothed him. It was a sweet middle spot between the silence on his journeys, where only the howling of the wind and the odd rustling were talking to him, and the screaming, cracking and clangour of battle.  
"That's nice of you", Bronwen said, as if it were his choice. She looked around, seemingly searching for words, then began: "Don't get me wrong... It's really horrible you are wounded like that and in pain... but... it..." She cleared her throat while he looked at her expectantly, clueless as to what might come.  
She started anew. "I presume you will be staying for a while."  
"If Maelys doesn't kick me out some day, yes", he attested.  
"She won't", Bronwen insisted. "You would have to act really vile for her to do that."  
"I wouldn't dream of doing so." That would have been a bloody disgrace.  
Bronwen just went on, nervously gesticulating: "Look, I just find it nice to have someone to... to heal with. Really, please don't get me wrong, I wish for no one to have to endure that and it was certainly not the reason I hit you with the crutches. It just... it feels nice to know that someone is going through the same struggles."  
Well, he hadn't lost a limb and a relative, but he didn't say that. Besides, on the other hand, her wound healing was much more advanced than his. But he got what she was speaking of. He had often been injured in his life, and each time he had, for the other Companions, instantly transformed into an invalid, an object of pity, overprotectiveness, ridicule, and even anger, being told to "not strain yourself" as often as to "man up", and being treated distantly and like a raw egg. The injury had defined him until he had functioned normally again. This was probably Bronwen's first – and hopefully last – major injury, so she couldn't just tune out this kind of behaviour in others. He involuntarily wondered if Maelys always treated her like that. Having someone with the same problem around who was not in the position to treat oneself like some poor wretch with a disadvantage was a relief in a situation like that.  
"I understand that", he said. "I'm honoured to stay and heal with you for a while, if it comforts you."  
Bronwen seemed less flustered at once. She didn't seem like the type to stay flustered for longer than necessary. "I'm guessing the Companions are named after the company they provide", she said.

"We fight together, we defend each other, we care for each other and we heal together", he confirmed. He didn't add that, at the moment, they just weren't enough that there was a high chance of there being two injured persons at the same time.

"Too bad I'm not a Companion", Bronwen said, grinning.  
Farkas chuckled. "You're _my_ companion at the moment", he replied, then asked: "Does that mean you'd like to join us, then?"  
She denied, though. "Even leaving out of consideration that I have but an odd number of limbs left, a fighter's life was never what I wished for."  
He couldn't say he was surprised. Bronwen and especially Maelys seemed so pacifistic and easy-going. That were admirable qualities, but not those of a fighter.  
"Besides", Bronwen went on, "you _are_ sellswords, and I won't become a sellsword for sure."  
"We're not", he objected, slightly turning his head away and looking askew at her.  
"Then tell me the difference between a Companion and a regular sellsword", she prompted him.  
"Between a Companion and a sellsword, period. There's no need for the word 'regular' in that sentence", he replied with just a tad bit too much of an angry vigour. "The difference is easy: A sellsword will do just about anything for money, a Companion has honour. This is our defining trait. We are honourable fighters for hire, not dirty mercenaries who attack merchant caravans in their spare time."  
He felt uncomfortably winded after that short rant, and leaned back again, his sore body more tense than he would have liked to admit.  
"I hadn't thought you were that touchy about the subject", Bronwen remarked, eyes wide. "I'm sorry. Try not to get too vexed. It's never good, and not at all in your current condition."  
She was right. It wasn't good. It wasn't good for his body, it wasn't good for his peace of mind, and it wasn't good for keeping his beast nature asleep. That was why Vilkas, who was more hot-headed than him, regularly struggled against his inner wolf. And he shouldn't get that upset about an ignorant comment from a girl who didn't know better, anyway. It was just that the current state of the Companions – a small handful of fighters willing to do almost as much as a mercenary meeting his clients in a dirty tavern would, who were drunk and disorderly all the time and who were ridiculed by the city watch – really got to him. He loved the concept of the Companions and everything they stood for, he was raised by their rules, their ideals ran through his veins, their origins and history made his heart beat... it was just the reality of it all that was none too worthwhile, and he hated it.  
"It's alright", he said, running his hands over his face. "Sorry, I overreacted."  
"It's fine", she reassured him. "We all do, sometimes."  
Then, changing topics, she asked: "How well can you walk by yourself?"  
He didn't want to admit that what with the big gash on his thigh and his rather big blood loss, his mobility was significantly restricted. "Why are you asking?"  
"I'd like to show you my room", she explained.  
For a silly little moment, Farkas felt skittish about that suggestion, before remembering that she had already told him he could sleep in her bed. She was just going to show him where he was to sleep, there was certainly nothing on her mind that Maelys might not have approved of.  
"I can make it up there", he stated confidently. He was sure he _could_ , he was just not sure about his overall condition afterward.  
"Fine. Take the toiletries and come with me."

She reached for her crutches and, as soon as she held them, lifted herself in a standing position. Carefully and with both hands pressed against the tabletop, he heaved himself upright.

Reaching Bronwen's room was like a forced march. Bronwen was leading him upstairs in a speed that much resembled a glacier's, which was alright with Farkas, for he, too, dragged himself forward like an arthritic ewe. When they had put the stairs behind themselves, they made a short break. Bronwen obviously didn't need one, and he tried to catch his breath again as quickly as he could to not let her wait.  
Her room, thankfully, was behind the first of three doors. Even the short hallway seemed like too much of an effort to him, at the moment. The door creaked softly when Bronwen opened it. The room was small, but not claustrophobic. There was a window just left of them, and next to it, a small bookshelf. On top of the bookshelf was a small statue representing Mara. A bed with neatly straightened out and smoothed blankets on top of cow fur covering a bulk of straw stretched out on the wall just ahead of them.  
"Sit down on the bed. I don't have a chair in here", Bronwen invited him, seating herself on the heavy chest on the bed's foot side, where some clothes piled.  
His body too uncomfortable and hurting to protest, Farkas did as she had said, eyeing the books.  
"Are they novels or nonfiction?", he asked.  
"Both. Some are manuals on hunter stuff, like weapons or animal traces, or on gardening and farming, some are history books, and some are novels. Most of those are murder mysteries", she answered.  
Just at that moment, a heavy downpour fell from the heavens, creating a dampened drumming noise on the roof and obviously joy in Bronwen, for she sighed, with a pleased smile on her face: "I love the sound of rain."  
"You're studious, then?"  
"I wouldn't call it that", she replied. "I learned what I needed to know from books and my parents, and whenever life here gets too boring for me, murder mystery it is. It's more escapism than studiosity. Do you like to read?"

"Not really", Farkas admitted with a slight sigh, still not turning his gaze away from the books clad in colourful leather.  
"That's too bad. Why not?"  
"Nonfiction bores me and novels often seem nonsensical to me. Too much melodrama. Too many implausible turns of events. Reading for entertainment seems like a waste of time, too. I haven't really read a book in so long the other Companions make fun of my and question my ability to read whenever they so much as see me holding a book. Vilkas likes reading, though. I already told you that I'm... less intelligent than my brother. Maybe reading needs smartness."  
"Uh-huh", Bronwen sounded.  
"What, 'uh-huh'?", he asked, finally turning to her.  
Sitting on the chest, she looked even smaller then usual. She didn't seem to mind.  
"So the problem is, once again, with the others and not with you", she diagnosed.  
He blinked.  
"It's not right of them to ridicule you when you try to read."  
"If I hadn't just stopped reading, they wouldn't act that way", Farkas responded, not quite sure why he defended them and their behaviour.  
"If they hadn't said 'Look at that guy, so much less intelligent than his alike-looking brother even though he's holding a book; maybe he can't read or is just plain stupid?' whenever they saw you reading, you probably wouldn't have stopped reading", Bronwen insisted.  
He sighed once more. "You're a demanding dialogue partner, you know that?"  
"So they say." She sounded a lot less staunch and also more quiet than before.

There was a moment of awkward silence and Farkas wondered if he had hurt her by calling her demanding. He could imagine full well that she didn't get along with people of the same age precisely because she was used to spending much time around adults, and emotionally open and wise adults like her mother at that. An already sweet, red apple on a tree looked strange if all other apples of the same size and age and on the same tree were still green and sour, after all, and probably even stirred up envy among them. With the unusual worldview her mother had taught her, even other adults might find her openly stated opinions and analyses arduous or even just pretentious.  
"I'm sorry, I'm just not used to this kind of conversation", he gawkishly tried to soothe her.

"Thought so. The Companions don't seem like epitomes of politeness."  
"Certainly not. We respect each other, but we don't give too much about the others' feelings, much less do we talk about them."  
"Ma says that this is the foremost reason why men die earlier than women."  
"I would have reckoned it had something to do with men's lust for battle."  
"Maybe", Bronwen acknowledged. "Maybe both. Maybe men have the urge to battle because they don't talk about their feelings enough."  
"Dunno. The women at Jorrvaskr don't talk about their feelings a lot, as well. I don't think it has anything to do with gender."

"Not talking about feeling, or list for battle?"  
Farkas thought about this for a moment, before eventually answering: "Both."  
"For someone not used to this kind of conversation, you're exhibiting some quite remarkable arguments", she complimented him, which made him a bit self-conscious.  
Just that he wasn't used to those dialogues didn't mean he didn't enjoy this one. It actually surprised him a bit. Because of his reputation and maybe also because of the combination of his size, muscles and tendency to keep silent, most people didn't bother to involve him into a deep, thoughtful conversation. Kodlak certainly did from time to time, but Kodlak had known him since he had been a boy. Bronwen here didn't seem to think much of just talking to him in that way. It was most likely just the way she was. Again, he could see why most people her age and even older than her would find her way of conversing overwhelming.  
"And what of it?", he asked.  
"It means you think a lot about things. It means you can easily adapt to a situation you're not used to." Bronwen grinned. "It means you're not an idiot."  
He sighed, letting it slide, carefully fingering the bandage around his neck. The rain's monotonous sounds made him kind of sleepy.  
Bronwen seemed to be content with this topic's denouement, and said: "When I'm not reading, I try to mend our clothes and linens or to spin yarn – with which I will later mend. It's very drab and I'm not really good at neither."  
"I have never spun, but I'm bad at mending clothes, too", Farkas replied.  
"So you mend you own clothing?", she asked with a soft chuckle.  
"Of course", he said. "Tilma can't do all of that. She already mends all the textiles in Jorrvaskr, and some of the harder to repair articles of clothing of ours. But most of my clothes, I mend myself if need be."  
"That's a quality I could admire in a man", Bronwen said with a laugh, leaving it unclear if she meant it literally or ironically.  
She heaved herself upright again.  
"I'll look how Ma is doing. You can stay here, or come downstairs again."

Farkas, not keen on getting up again, watched her depart, her crutches' thuds mingling with the sound of the rain on the roof. Then he gave the books on her shelf another sideglance before picking one up.


End file.
